


Astrolabe

by despommes



Series: Moonbringer [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despommes/pseuds/despommes
Summary: Two souls, separated by fate and set adrift in the currents of time. They have found one another in the aftermath of the storm, but the sea of the unknown lies vast and blue before them. With the night sky once again overhead and the stars to guide them, they will navigate these waters together.Spoiler warning for patch 5.3 in chapter 4!





	1. Vessel

**Author's Note:**

> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda). This is a collection of drabbles set in an around my other stories, A Timeless Lullaby, Downpour, Cauchemar, and Move Me.
> 
> Rating subject to change.
> 
> Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think!

The tray is prepared accordingly: porcelain teapot full to bursting with steeping chamomile; a creamer armed with cold milk; sugar bowl laden with glittering white cubes; a humble plate of scones leftover from an afternoon picnic taken with Alisaie on the lawn. All are balanced gracefully in her hands as she carries them down the great winding staircases, shimmering blue crystal ringing as the gentle sounds of her footsteps are echoed back to her. The Tower hums pleasantly in her presence, as though it shares its master’s familiarity and affections. The whisper of her cloak against the marbled steps trails behind her.

The door to the Ocular opens easily enough on silent hinges. She sighs, disappointed, to find the study bereft of life. The portal at the other side of the room glows ghostly white-blue. It glints off of the silver utensils as she crosses the floor. A moment of precarious rearranging so she may free a hand to knock softly at the smaller door to the Umbilicus. There are a few heartbeats of hushed quiet, then a muffled “Enter,” much more subdued and reedy than she would like to hear. She takes the tray in both hands again and uses her shoulder to gently wedge herself into the room.

The Crystal Exarch sits at his desk, shoulders hunched. He is nearly obscured from view by the mountains of tomes stacked precariously at either side of him. His head does not rise from the splayed tomes under his nose, eyes scanning their contents as his fingers scratch notes to parchment with a well-worn quill. There is no reaction from him as she approaches the desk. She cautiously slides books away to make room for the tea tray. Her hands fold neatly at her middle as she waits. Pages turn. The crystal chimes. Seconds tick by on the wall chronometer. After what seems like a small eternity, the Warrior of Darkness draws herself to her full height, gazing down her nose at him, and clears her throat.

“Tea for you, my lord.”

The utterance of the title is what does it, she thinks. The quill pen stills in his hand, a growing blot of ink marring the paper below. G’raha Tia at last looks up at her and his eyes are dark-rimmed, bleary and dull with exhaustion. His lips are pale and drawn into a grim line. Her gaze roves over the tightly drawn brows and the sallow complexion and she hopes her face does not give away the concern that pulls and pinches just below her throat. He leans back in his chair and she pretends not to see the subtle wince as his spine straightens.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the time,” he mutters tersely. She reaches for an empty cup and saucer, as though she hadn’t just heard him, and makes to pour. “I may have stumbled upon a turning point in this vein of research.”

“Sugar?”

“Artemesia.”

The bottom of the porcelain teacup meets the indent of its saucer with an indignant clatter. She braces her hands on either side of the desk and takes a slow, heavy breath to compose the wave of emotion welling between her ribs. As she once again meets his eyes, it threatens to spill forth from her tongue in bitter words, but she holds it all back.

“G’raha.” She says it tenderly, much to her own annoyance. His brow furrows stubbornly at the sound of his name. “It has been three days and nearly as many nights since you last emerged from this room.”

He seems genuinely taken aback at the declaration. The tired angle of his ears shifts back by a fraction. He slumps in his chair. Hands stained with long dried splotches of ink settle over his face as he rubs hard circles into his eyes. A rush of breath puffs against his palms. “I am so close,” he says miserably.

“Great. Then think of the progress you’ll make once you return to it with a fresh pair of eyes.” She hands him his tea, cup and saucer both, and he reluctantly takes it from her without further provocation. Without asking again she takes the tiny silver tongs and plops a singular sugar cube into the steaming drink. She stirs it for him with a long silver spoon. Her hand grasps at the creamer and as she readies her lips to offer the milk, he lets out a frustrated, anguished cry. His elbows meet the desk with a surprising amount of force. Brown tea sloshes from the rim of the cup and soaks the parchment underneath. Artemesia watches, stunned, as he digs his fingers into his temples.

“I have been on the verge of a breakthrough for so, _ so _ long,” he breathes. “The answer is somewhere in these pages. I _ know _ it. And for all my years as a scholar, an Archon, for the _ century _ I have spent with these books it yet eludes me! _ How?! _ How is it that for every step forward I seem to take there is a wrinkle, a fly in the proverbial ointment that yanks me one hundred steps back!”

Her concern for him finally wins out over the indignation. She rushes to his side and pulls him close. He tucks his face in at her middle, fingers clutching at the loose fabric of her cloak. She can feel the rapid heat of his gasping breaths through her clothes and for a moment she fears he may hyperventilate.

“Calm yourself, Raha,” she murmurs soothingly. She holds him tight against her.

“How can I be calm?” He turns his head to spit the words out. “It is by _ my _ fumbling hand that they remain trapped here!”

“And by your brilliance and ingenuity will they yet be borne home.” Artemesia spreads her fingers out over the heaving expanse of his back, willing him to settle. “You do no one any favors in working yourself to death.” He shudders at that, as though his body openly rejects the words. “Least of all yourself.”

“I… I—”

She places a finger over his quivering lips. He falls silent.

“My love, you cannot serve from an empty vessel.”

He gapes at her. She lovingly holds his stare, gently petting at the lank hair framing his face. G’raha wets his lips.

“I am not empty,” he whispers. Artemesia shakes her head.

“Sweet, selfless man.” She cups her hand over his cheek, her thumb stroking along the beautiful track of crystal there. He closes his eyes at the words and his lashes flutter softly against her fingertip. “You are so very full of light and love it _ blinds _ me to look at you at times. But even this body, beautiful and special as it is, has its limits.”

The crystalline grasp of his dominant hand closes around her wrist. He holds her there, like a lifeline, as he slowly begins to calm. The tension drains from his shoulders underneath her fingers. G’raha slumps against her in defeat.

“I am sorry,” he tells her. “It shames me to have raised my voice at you.”

“It is no matter.” She takes the still steaming teacup by the handle and holds it out in front of his face. “Now. Would you like milk with your tea?”

“I think I would.”

Artemesia smiles. She obliges him, adding a splash from the creamer to the sweetened chamomile. G’raha finally accepts the cup and takes a long, indulgent drink. Ruby eyes take in her state of dress as he swallows, widening as they finally notice the night clothes she wears under her cloak.

“What is the hour?” he asks.

“Quarter of a bell past one in the morning.”

“Seven hells.”

“Finish your tea and we shall see about getting you to bed.” She reaches over the desk and takes a scone from the plate, placing it unceremoniously atop the book in front of him. He eyes it with interest.

“Is there jam for the scones?” he has the cheek to ask.

“There would have been, had you accepted my invitation to tea this afternoon.”

He makes a petulant sound in the back of his throat. She flicks at his ear. His tail brushes good-naturedly against the tip of her own under the legs of the chair.

When his tea is drunk and his scone eaten, sans jam, she manages to coax him out of the study and past the Dossal Gate. Where he normally would have insisted on walking to her room in the Pendants, taking every possible opportunity to enjoy the night sky through the Crystarium’s domed glass ceilings, the exhaustion robs him of the willpower. They take the aethernet shard, bidding a quick goodnight to the nighttime suite manager as they ascend the stairs. Once in her rooms, G’raha sits on her bed as she fusses about to draw a bath.

Artemesia can tell the fatigue is finally beginning to sink its hooks into her lover’s body. The longer he sits still the more it settles into the tired lines of his face, and when she makes to help him undress he hardly has the strength to lift his arms. She sheds him of his boots, his simple robe, the long shirt and soft breeches underneath, and lastly his small clothes. He leans against her as she bids him to stand so she can carefully lower him into the copper tub. He makes a pleased sound as the steaming water engulfs him.

He lets her wash his hair as he scrubs himself. Sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she undoes the straggly braid and watches the strands fan out in the water. She dips her cupped hands underneath and lifts them to wet the crown of his head. G’raha’s ears flicker against offending droplets, even as his chin sinks down below the surface. The bottle of shampoo is upended to the center of her palm as she pours a coin-sized dollop out. The resulting lather is rich and sweet smelling, honey-laced, and at the first sweep of her soapy fingers through his hair G’raha lets out a strangled, debauched sound. It makes her smile. His head tilts back in her hands as she scratches at his scalp in an effort to wash away the built up oil. Bloody eyes flutter to a close, his lips gently parted with each breathy exhale. She massages away at his skull and treasures each pleased sigh.

After she is convinced he is clean enough, she tilts his head back and pins his ears shut against the top of his head. The suds melt away to float at the surface of the water as he leans under. When he sits up again, rinsed free of soap, Artemesia plants kisses along the dark, soaked curtain of hair and leaves him to finish his bath undisturbed.

Watery sounds echo through the room, bouncing off the gleaming marble floor as she sets about to find towels and night clothes for her guest. G’raha takes the towel as he rises from the bath on shaky legs. He half-heartedly dries himself, only able to muster a quick pass through for both his tail and his hair, before forgoing night clothes completely and climbing naked between her sheets. Artemesia cannot bring herself to care about the soaked pillowcase or how his hair will dry when she catches sight of him nestled beneath the plush quilt. He wordlessly reaches back for her, fingers outstretched in her direction.

“How demanding he is, after leaving me to a cold and empty bed these past two nights,” she teases him. He huffs an airy laugh as she curls close at his back, twining her pale fingers through his own gemstone ones. She rests her lips over the puckered scar of the gunshot wound where it skirts the border of skin and crystal.

“I love you,” he tells her, and she squeezes him in her arms. “Thank you.”

“And I love you.” Artemesia plants her nose at the nape of his neck and inhales the clean scent of him, admiring the gentle blend of her honey soap and the faint cinnamon spice that is entirely his own. She kisses him there. “Go to sleep, Raha.”

He does, and quite quickly. She is soon to follow.


	2. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just really in the mood to write soft things about my favorite catte girl and my favorite catte boi.
> 
> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda). This is a collection of drabbles set in an around my other stories, A Timeless Lullaby, Downpour, Cauchemar, and Move Me.
> 
> Rating subject to change.
> 
> Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think!

He remembers the very moment he knew he was helplessly, hopelessly in love with her.

When they had been young, (she is still young, he has to remind himself, with her whole life yet to live), passing the days and nights gallivanting about Mor Dhona in search of the truth of the very Tower that now lays claim to his flesh.

He’d loved to tease her in those days. Looking back, he wondered how she had ever tolerated such an insufferable pest. She assures him now that it had at times been almost endearing, and the sentiment, while no doubt meant to assuage his unease, makes him wince all the same. G’raha Tia the Seeker, the Archon, the scholar far ahead of his years, had been a brash, passionate, and impetuous young man. Artemesia Andromeda, eikon slayer, the Mother’s chosen, and bane of the Garlean Empire, had been a pensive, distant, and thoughtful young woman. She had been an enigma to him, a riddle he’d resigned himself to solving the first time he laid eyes on her.

There were countless evenings spent forgoing sleep for the sake of research. On one such occasion, they had been huddled over a rickety table with all of his notes and his readings lit by the glow of a campfire. He could still picture the wide expanse of her eyes in the dim light, reflecting the glow of the stars as profoundly as the waters of Lake Silvertear. Their hands were covered in ink as they scribbled through miles of parchment, the crude and cheap quill pens provided to their little expedition leaking more often than they did not. They’d passed the majority of their note-taking, but as G’raha had chanced a look up to gauge her progress he’d been caught off guard. The short, crude snort of laughter escaped him before he could even think to stop it.

It startled her from her work. She’d looked up at him in alarm, brows furrowed. With her face tilted towards him now it granted him a better view of the source to his mirth. It did little to quell the unbidden snickering he was now trying to hide behind his hand.

“What is so funny?” she’d snapped, tired and irritable and not satisfied being left out of the joke.

“Your nose,” he’d giggled. “You’ve got—you’ve got ink on it.”

“Have I?”

Too fatigued to notice the still gleaming stain of fresh ink on her fingers, she’d meant to wipe away the offending spot. G’raha gasped as the splotch, originally fairly small in size, was smudged over the tip of her nose and up the bridge.

“No!” he breathed. “Oh, you’ve made it so much worse!”

“Stop laughing!” Artemesia pouted at him. It only served to wrinkle her nose, newly decorated with its dark smear. “Here,” she huffed, patting at her pockets as he giggled. She thrust a plain white handkerchief out at him. “Since there are no mirrors at hand, make yourself useful and get it for me then.”

His laughter died down to soft, intermittent chuckles as he took the proffered cloth, leaning in to help her. Her eyes briefly crossed as she looked down where he tried to scrub away the unwelcome blot. Her lips, normally held in such a guarded line, fell sweetly open in a tiny, barely discernible gape. It is then, as the warmth of her skin seeped through to his fingers from the other side of the clean, white cloth, that the grin is wiped abruptly off his face. He blinked in the face of the realization cresting to the forefront of his mind. It washed over him like a lazy, inevitable surf.

_ Oh. _

His fingers stilled over the now clean slope of her nose. She shifted impatiently in her seat as he hesitated, lost in a sudden, very important reverie.

“Well?” she’d asked. “Is it gone, G’raha?”

“... Yes.”

He handed the handkerchief back to her, now bearing the blue-black smudge that had marred her dusky skin. She’d muttered something to him then, no doubt letting him know how little she appreciated being laughed at, but he hardly heard her. All G’raha Tia could do in that moment was _ look _ at her for what felt like the first time. The stubborn line of her sharp mouth, the ruffled angle of her magnificent ears, the subtle scowl looming over the charming brow.

He has been so blissfully and _ irredeemably _ lost since that night.

Did not fully comprehend quite how lost until that night they’d stargazed on the shores of Lake Silvertear, drunk off of stolen wine and quietly awe-struck in the wake of Allagan prophecy. His heart had been heavy, his blood churning in his veins like stormy waters. Artemesia had stretched her hands toward the stars, explaining constellations to him like it was the simplest and most essential concept in all the world, and he had brooded and simply basked in the slurred sound of her voice knowing it might very well be the last chance he ever got to hear it. Then she had looked straight past his melancholy, into the very depths of his soul with her wide, bright eyes. And she’d _ kissed _ him. She had kissed him and he had clung to her for as long as he could, greedily taking what fate allowed him before he was forced to say goodbye.

Centuries passed. He kept the memory of her close to his heart, as close as he could on this new path he had forged. He had thought time would be enough to soften the rush of his affections. There were so many years between them, lifetimes on his part and a hero’s journey on hers. But when he’d met her at the other side of the Exarch’s gate, his hands trembling at the grip of his staff and the butterflies swarming his stomach, it had been all he could do to keep the waver in his voice at bay. There, arguing with an obstinate Lyna, had been Artemesia. Her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it, her figure imposing in the decorum of her finely tailored armor, but he recognized the scowl on her face. She gave his ward the same stubborn pout she’d gifted him with all those years ago and it took the very breath from his chest.

It had been all he could do not to pull the hood from his face that very moment.

It was easier than he’d ever dreamt to fall even more in love with her. It _ still _ is.

He loves her in the heat of battle, a gilded orchid in her ornamental caller’s robes, her eyes alight with the very aether of primals she’d slain, tamed, and dared to call her own. Magics dancing at her fingertips like she’d been born to wield them, the very energies of life and nature twisting at her whim. She endured like her Carbuncle, roared like Bahamut, and burned like the Phoenix.

He loves her in the gentle morning light as it peeks over the crest of her bare shoulder in their bed. Gold douses the silver of her hair so beautifully it almost blinds him. Her face is soft as she sleeps; the normally occupied line of her brow relaxes, her lips slack and her lashes still against her skin. It never fails to astonish him. In life she is a force all her own. She towers over all others, if not in body than in presence, in her very spirit. Each morning he steals these oblivious moments for himself, like a heartsick miser. G’raha greedily fits himself closer against the sleeping warmth of her, pulls her close against his heart to kiss at the flickering point of her ear. She will sigh so sweetly against the crook of his neck, nestling herself deep between his chest and the blankets like she belongs there. She does, he tells himself, and he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

He loves her in the giddy peals of children’s laughter. It makes his heart swell, how she comes alive at the sight of small hands and feet. It is an inherent instinct, bred in her by the huge, loving family that had welcomed him as easily as they had her; the need to love, to feed, to heal, to listen, to _ care_. She plays with them like the weight of every star left to the world does not hinge upon her shoulders. Laughs like the child he would _ die _ to know she’d been once. Like the child she would never ask him for, but that he would give her if he could.

He loves her in the hushed blanket of night, her skin fevered against his own. Each bitten gasp, each murmur of his name as he touches her is sweeter than any melody he’s ever heard. She makes love to him like she does anything else: with an all-consuming dedication, the love inside her spilling out at the seams. She breathes his name like a prayer, and he whispers her in kind, even as it overwhelms him. Her body is home to him, as much as he hopes his own is to her.

He loves her in the mundane little things he had once taken for granted. The offset pinch of her lips when she is deep in thought. Her incessant need to tidy her surroundings, regardless of how long she lingers. Her _ voracious _ sweet tooth. The way she absentmindedly combs her fingers through the hair at his nape. The darkened tip of her tail he’d once told her looked like she’d dipped it in a stray inkwell. The smell of her pillow when she leaves their bed. The way she appraises the produce at market as she makes her choice.

“Raha.”

The uttering of his name is intimate and dear. His eyes jump to hers from where they’d been gazing intently at an alarmingly beautiful display of tomatoes.

“Yes?”

“I asked how you felt about a tomato galette? For supper tonight.”

She tilts her head as she considers him. His cheeks suddenly feel very warm and he knows they must be pink. He offers her an apologetic smile for his lack of focus. “Do you think it will be amenable for your guests? I admit, you would know better than I.”

Artemesia blinks in thought. She turns back to the grocer’s selection. “Thancred is rather fond of tomatoes this late in the season. Ryne is not particularly picky, and Urianger is unlikely to mind so long as there is tea served afterwards.”

G’raha adjusts the wicker basket at his arm. He touches her elbow as he moves to stand beside her. “I think a tomato galette sounds lovely. Though we should pay a visit to the cheesemonger; there is a new dairy in Holminster, and I have been meaning to sample their wares myself.”

“_ That_,” she says, tucking her arm into his own, “sounds like a novel idea.”

She makes her selection and pays the grocer with a few coins from her purse. G’raha Tia fills his basket with their purchased tomatoes, his tail flickering affectionately against her own. Artemesia smiles as they turn to make for the other side of the market.

He may be lost, but she will always be there to guide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you'd like to support my work, you can [buy me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/despommes)!


	3. Rituals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda). This is a collection of drabbles set in an around my other stories, A Timeless Lullaby, Downpour, Cauchemar, and Move Me.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by the adorable cat startup noise all my cats make when I pet them. I love them very much. I think it's only logical that cat boys do the same thing.

It is rare that she is the first one to rise in the morning.

A lifetime spent rising by the light of the moon rather than that of the sun has made her far, far from a morning person. Artemesia prefers to take her time as she wakes. Left to her own devices, she will gladly while away the early part of the day amidst her pillows and dreams. When she does eventually emerge from the hazy blanket of slumber it can take up to an hour to convince herself to leave the comfort of her bed.

The sight of G’raha’s serene, sleeping form beside her warrants the tiny hum of surprise from her lips. He hardly _ ever _ lingers in sleep longer than she does. He had always been, insufferably, an eager morning person. No matter how little rest he’d managed the night before he would wake wide-eyed and voracious for the day ahead of them. Artemesia supposes now, as she affectionately eyes the silvery tips of his bed-tousled hair, that time occasionally must catch up with him. He is still an early riser by nature, but if there were a soul alive that more deserved an odd morning spent dozing for a few extra hours of daylight then she had never met them.

She had wondered if he would be tired: a day’s trip into Il Mheg for an impromptu picnic with the fairy King had, predictably, run long, and had been followed by an equally impromptu dip in Longmirror Lake. Suffice to say by the time they managed to return home to the Crystarium, pink-cheeked and lake-damp, the Crystal Exarch had been deliciously and contentedly tired. There had scarcely been enough time for a hasty meal and a bath before the two of them had all but collapsed into bed, tangled together like a pair of giddy kits.

As Artemesia gazes down at the sweet, sleeping face of her scholar, there is no stifling the warmth that floods her chest. She lingers long enough to quietly grace his slack brow with fleeting kiss. The scent of him perfumes the air around their bed, fills her head like a love spell. There is the unmistakable mark of the Tower, bright like ozone in the wake of a lightning strike, accompanied by the heady and earthy spice that is all his own. Through it all weaves the familiar comfort of _ her _ scent, and something inside her preens possessively as she recognizes it. G’raha Tia does not stir at the touch of her lips, a testament to how truly worn he must have been upon falling asleep. Artemesia smiles to herself. She unwinds from their haven of sheets and blankets to rise to her full height, releasing a gratified sigh as she stretches her arms over her head.

The hour is early. The sun is only newly born in the sky. Morning colors filtering through the clouds still lean toward the orange and pink of dawn, having not yet matured into the buttery yellow of true morning. The world outside is steeped in that strange limbo of hushed quiet before the noise of waking life follows the dawn. While Artemesia would normally resent being up while the day is still so young, there is a meditative peace to be found in the post-dawn tranquility. It is not lost on her as she makes to pull on her clothes, to clean her teeth and splash a handful of cold water over her face. She goes through the motions as quietly as possible to avoid alerting her notoriously light sleeper still dozing at the opposite side of the room. He is still blissfully unaware as she silently slips out the door, boots treading carefully across the marble floor.

The marketplace at this time of day, while not desolate, is certainly not as busy at it surely will be given a few hours. The handful of patrons meandering about the vendors’ stalls do so leisurely, not yet pressured by bustling crowds. Merchants bid their good mornings as they finish with the setting out of their wares. Artemesia smiles cheerfully to those who call her name, greeting them in good spirits as she makes her way to her preferred grocer. Balli, a gentle-natured Hrothgar man, is the proud recipient of that honor. He grins widely as he sees her approach.

“Good morning, Lady Andromeda,” he calls warmly to her.

“Hello, Balli.”

“My, but _ you _ are out and about with the morning birds today. Unless I am mistaken, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of your patronage so early.”

Artemesia hums amiably. “Even Keepers of the Moon are not impervious to the allure of a beautiful morning, it seems.”

Balli chuckles at that. “Right, I suppose not. Oh! Before I forget.” The man turns his back to her for a brief moment. She can hear him murmuring to himself as he rummages through his backup inventory. After a few seconds of searching he finds what he’s looking for with a pronounced “Ah!” before turning to brandish it to her in his hands. “I had planned on bagging them for you later this afternoon, but, since you are already here...”

Her lips part in surprise, eyes widening as she appreciates the cluster of bright, red cherry tomatoes, still dangling from the vine. They are gloriously ripe and incredibly fragrant. She takes them reverently, admiring the fruit in her hands. “Oh, they’re beautiful, Balli. That greenhouse of yours is a marvel.”

“They’re yours, free of charge.” He gives her a sly wink. “A small thank you for the advice you offered the missus. Her orchids have never been lovelier.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” She makes to give them back to him, unwilling to accept something so thoughtful without giving anything in return. “You must let me pay for them, I insist.”

“A discount, then, at the very least.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “And, well… if you wouldn’t mind passing along the recipe for those iced buns the Exarch brought to our last commerce forum, then I should say we might call that a fair trade.”

An amused grin works its way at her lips. She acquiesces to his terms with a nod. “I’d say we might. Since you twist my arm. I shall write it down and have it to you by the end of the week.”

“I would greatly appreciate that, my lady.”

She purchases the rest of her produce: a bunch of verdant asparagus, a pound of baking apples, a head of garlic, and several bundles of lush greens courtesy of Balli’s greenhouse. He packages them all for her with great care while requesting she sends his regards to the Exarch, and as she nestles them into her basket she thanks him again for the tomatoes.

The remainder of her shopping passes in a similar fashion: a small block of cheese and a dozen rail eggs from the dairy; sugar, salt, and pepper from the spice merchant; a filet of haddock for supper from the fishmonger, as well as a small parcel of tempting dried mackerels. She is miqo’te from the ears on her head to the tail at her back, and the smell of them had been more than she could resist. The final nail in the coffin to her impulse purchase had been just how fond G’raha is of the tiny morsels he had been more or less brought up on. She imagines the look on his face when he discovers them and the dizzying wave of affection that follows lightens her step back to the Pendants.

He is, amazingly, still fast asleep when she returns. While she was away, he seems to have commandeered the freed-up real estate in their bed. Whatever of her body warmth that had been left behind in the sheets must have lured him in, because he is currently nestled squarely in her side of the bed with his face half hidden in her pillow. Artemesia deposits her basket of groceries, toes off her boots, and crosses the room to him. He does not stir as her weight sinks into the edge of the mattress. He will be out of sorts for the rest of the day if he sleeps for much longer, and while she would gladly let him doze away the remainder of the daylight hours she knows he will thank her for waking him.

The tiny, quiet trill that catches in his throat when she reaches out for the russet velveteen of his ear nearly undoes her. G’raha Tia’s ruby red eyes blink under the parted curtain of his bangs as he comes to. They follow the line of her arm up to her face and she is gifted with the most tender, loving smile she thinks she might have ever seen. His fingers close around her wrist as she pets through his hair, his thumb worrying at her pulse. He huffs a sleepy breath through his nose.

“Good morning, my love,” she murmurs to him. He makes a pleased sound at the sentiment, nuzzling his cheek into her palm. Warm lips graze her skin.

“Good morning.” The slight rasp to his voice is endearing. He takes in her clothed form, brows rising in realization. “You’ve dressed,” he observes, and his eyes dart towards the door. Her basket sits unassumingly on the kitchen table. “You’ve been to the market?”

“Just a few odds and ends. Balli says hello, by the way.”

He winces, giving her a knowing smile. “I assume he inquired about your iced bun recipe.”

“Indeed he did.” She grins, flicks gently at one of his ears. “If you continue to conscript me in catering your forums, I am afraid that none of my jealously guarded culinary trade secrets will, in fact, remain _ secrets.” _

“Mm, nonsense.” G’raha leans closer. His mouth finds hers to pay her a sleepy, lingering kiss. She savors it. “You adore it.”

“I do.” Artemesia taps her finger at his nose. “Breakfast?”

“Of course.”

She heats oil in a skillet over the stove. G’raha clambers from the nest he has made of the bed to help tidy away the groceries.

“You spoil me,” he says suddenly, and she knows he has found the mackerels. She chuckles.

"My favorite pastime."

He fills the kettle for their morning tea and places himself at her side to wait for it to warm up. Artemesia takes in the sight of him, still in his comfortable bed clothes. His feet are bare against the gleaming marble floors. With the feeble lift from his sandals he is usually only two or three ilms smaller than she is, but without them the crown of his head peters out level with her temple. His hair has loosened a bit from the normally neat braid and it hangs charmingly around his chin. He is remarkably handsome like this: standing unceremoniously in her kitchen, surrounded by the soft glow of morning as he waits for his tea.

Artemesia softly brushes her cheek to his own, butting their foreheads together. She cannot help herself. He reflexively mirrors it. A content purr starts up at the base of his chest. Not for the first time she longs to return uniquely Seeker gesture but settles for the low, comforting chuff of her own people. His purr grows louder at the sound of it.

She prepares them omelettes with the greens and eggs she’d purchased. She roasts the tomatoes alongside them in the pan, still on the vine, until the skins split and the juice begins to seep through. A leftover loaf of day old bread makes for toast, joined by softened butter and a jar of sweet blackberry preserves. Their breakfast is enjoyed in companionable quiet. G’raha lazily peruses a letter he’d meant to answer the day before as he chews. Artemesia gazes absentmindedly out of the open window, her lips perched over her steaming cup of tea.

It is the happiest she can ever remember being.

Their meal eaten and the consequent dishes squared away, they begin to prepare themselves for the remainder of their day. Artemesia settles herself at her vanity. A fine-toothed comb and a soft-bristled brush, both adorned in matching ornamental silver, sit just below the mirror. She uses the comb to sort out delicate hairs at the interior of her ears. The brush is used to smooth her sleep-flattened tail. She gently coaxes the fur into place as G’raha pieces together the convoluted robe around his body. When he is finished, she offers him her place in front of the mirror so he might sort out his hair. His own voluminous tail falls gracefully into her lap where she has relocated to the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, she passes the brush through her lover’s fur for him, grooming him as he grooms himself.

“When I was young I used to wish my tail was _ half _ so plumed and beautiful,” she says absentmindedly. G’raha turns to face her, his lips quirked in a grin. “My cousin Sabi had a tail nearly as fluffy and thick as yours. I was so jealous of her it used to make me sick. I cried and cried.”

The Exarch chuckles at the thought of that. Hydaelyn’s chosen hero as a little girl, beside herself and wailing because she did not like the shape of her tail. “I am rather attached to your tail the way it is, you know.”

“Are you? If I recall correctly, you once told me my tail looked like it had mistakenly found its way into an uncovered _ inkwell_.” He winces at the memory, and she takes pity on him. “Though I suppose being a historian and scholar, you might be fairly fond of inkwells.”

“You would have the right of it.”

He kisses the tip of her nose.

Once she deems his tail adequately groomed, she rises to her feet and places the brush back in its designated spot. The two of them now dressed and presentable, G’raha takes up his staff and she her grimoire. Her Exarch takes her hand as he swings the door to her rooms open.

“After you, my darling.”

She squeezes his crystal blue fingers, relishing the love in his eyes.

The two of them leave the comfort of their small, shared space to brave their bright, shared world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you thank you for reading!! Leave me a comment please!!!!!!


	4. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter contains major spoilers for the MSQ plotline in the 5.3 patch!
> 
> Okay so I finished the MSQ for this patch and I literally starting writing this immediately. I'm so stupid and soft for these stupid cats and I'm coping in the only way I know how.
> 
> This chapter is kind of short, but I plan to include more a little later! I just needed to get this up before I cried my eyes out ;_;
> 
> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda). This is a collection of drabbles set in an around my other stories, A Timeless Lullaby, Downpour, Cauchemar, and Move Me.
> 
> Rating subject to change.
> 
> Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think!

“Is this a dream?”

Her hand pauses in its ministrations to his hair. The inky tip of her tail flickers curiously near her knee. He is struck by the urge to reach for it, to smoothe over the sleek, silvery fur with his palm. He settles instead for a shy tilt of his head when her fingers return to combing themselves through his drying bangs.

“I should think not,” she laughs. He can hear it move through her body, her heart beating leisurely just under his ear. The bracket of her legs around his ribs is a comfort, the solid feel of her in his arms made all the more unfathomably precious by the thrill of her skin against his. Skin where there had once been crystal. “Were this a dream, Alisae would be more inclined to remain in her bed, as she has been _ asked.” _

At the mention of her name, the girl huffs. She flings herself back into the bed next to her brother’s, arms crossed and lower lip firmly held in a pout. The rest of the scions snicker to each other before returning to the topic of conversation at hand, which he has admittedly not been paying much attention to. G’raha Tia smiles. “It most certainly feels like a dream.”

“Then is it a pleasant one, my love?”

The tip of her finger veers down the slope of his nose before making the journey back to his hairline. He sighs. It is a contented sound. Like he has spent years wandering and has finally found a place to call familiar. “Yes,” he answers her. “A blissful dream.”

Not a mere handful of hours earlier had he woken in the Tower to the sight of her face as she’d knelt before him, clutching the vessel made of his blood, his soul, and his memories to her breast. There had been tears in her eyes then, anxious tears born of fear, yet when his own had fluttered open there was nothing but timid joy to be found there. He had reached for her then. She had kissed him, again and again, kisses raining upon his cheeks, his brow, his mouth, reluctant to leave any ilm of him unaddressed. He had wept with her. He finds it hard to keep himself from weeping _ now. _

It had been raining when they’d left the tower. He’d done what he could to seal it, but slumber had left his body weak. The half-measures put into place over the door had been performed with shaking hands and would need to be reinforced later, but it could wait. It could all wait. This, he thinks as he kisses the tender inner bend of her elbow, absolutely could not.

She’d had to help him climb atop her chocobo. Limbs that had lain slack in sleep for years would need time to remember exactly how to move. His body shows no debilitating signs of atrophy, but there was definitely a lack of grace to be accounted for. Krile has assured him it was nothing that would not dissipate with time, and that is a relief. He has time. All the time in the world now.

One bath and a hot meal later, gifted with clothes that fit well enough for the time being, and he is here. Comfortable and dry in her bed, or at least the one she had claimed amongst her fellow scions. He is surrounded by the warmth of her body, cradled by the gentle sound of her voice as she hums an idle song to him. At first the hand in his hair had been to straighten out the wet, russet mop, but now he suspects she simply finds it soothing. He certainly does. He feels fit to close his eyes and sleep for another century or two.

The peace they have found in each other is broken momentarily by the grating sound of his stomach growling.

G’raha Tia flushes, bright red like a tomato. Their place on her bed is thankfully far enough from the rest of the room’s occupants for them to notice, engaged in conversation as they are. Artemesia chuckles above him. He tries to bury his humiliation in the crook of her arm.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles, embarrassed. Even with the full meal they had eaten side by side, hunger still gnaws away at his insides. He suspects it is a result of a reawakening metabolism aided by the newfound vigor of youth.

Artemesia sweeps his bangs out of his eyes. “Yes, what an inconvenience an appetite must be now with a body that cannot be sustained solely on tea and fortifying tinctures.”

He smothers a guilty grin into her shirt. “I was known to eat occasionally, before.”

“A diet of tea, potions, and the odd sweet here and there is hardly a diet.” He sees the smug tilt of her head from the corner of her eye. “Shall I fetch you another slice of Tataru’s excellent archon loaf?”

G’raha groans. “No, thank you. Hearty though it may be, its impression on the palate leaves much to be desired.”

“There’s plenty else to choose from in the kitchens. You may have your pick and I will be glad to find it for you.”

His heart aches at the thought of her absence so soon after they have been, against all odds, reunited. He clutches all the more tightly around her middle for it. “No,” he whispers into her skin. “No, let us remain this way. I can endure for a few bells longer.”

“Are you sure? I truly don’t mind—”

“Stay. Please.”

Her face softens at the plea. She smiles. “Of course.”

And so she returns to the affectionate petting of his hair and he to combating the weight of his eyelids. They watch contentedly from their secluded corner of the room as their companions continue to talk amongst themselves. They’d welcomed him so warmly when they’d seen him, fatigued and deliriously happy as he’d leant against their beloved friend’s shoulder. Now that the initial excitement has died down the two of them have been given a moment’s respite in each other. With a knowing glance from Y’shtola, the twins and Tataru had been persuaded to let them have their meager semblance of privacy in a room filled with those dear to them. The rest pay them no mind as G’raha struggles to stay awake and Artemesia fails to tear her eyes away.

She had asked him a question once, months ago, in the privacy of the Ocular on the First. Far from prying eyes and ears as he’d all but killed himself to find a way to help ferry her wayward scions back to the Source. “What would be the first thing you’d do,” she’d said, her voice so small in the echoed gravity of the room, “if you could go back?”

It had torn him from his books and his tests, mind scrambling through the text beneath his fingertips to try and parse just what she’d meant by that. “Go back where?”

Her lips had twisted, a sad rendition of a smile. “Home, Raha.”

That singular word, _ home, _had been enough to knock the very air from his lungs. It had been so long since he had thought of the Source as home. Perhaps not since he’d closed the doors to the Tower and sealed himself away inside. The Eorzea he had awoken in years into the future had not been his home. It was a sick, tragic reminder of what may come should he fail. The closest thing he could claim as a home now would be the Crystarium, namely the Tower itself.

He’d known what she’d meant however, and the melancholy it had stirred in his breast was almost too much to bear.

The answer had flown quickly to the tip of his tongue. _ I would marry you. _ It had _ hurt _ to bite it back and keep from her.

It was the absolute truth. Were he able to return to the Source that very day, he would ask for her hand there in the depths of the Syrcus Trench, surrounded by the shores of Lake Silvertear. He would have torn across the continent to find her family in the Shroud and beg her father for her hand. He would have taken her to Sharlayan, his homeland, to introduce his mother to the daughter she had always wanted. He would have gone with her to her house in the Lavender Beds, made love to her for a week straight, until they were too boneless to leave her bed. And he would have married her. In front of all their friends and their family. He would marry her, traverse however many stars she wanted, give her the family she longs for and live out the rest of his days at her side.

That is not the answer he’d given her. He’d been unwilling to burden her with dreams they both know very well may never come to pass, unwilling to break her heart any more than he knows he will have to. “I think… I would pay Rammbroes a visit,” he’d told her. “There are a few words I would like to say to him in regards to a certain _ mammet.” _

She’d laughed. It had not been the answer she’d wanted, he thinks, but she had still laughed.

G’raha Tia looks back on these regrets with a new sense of purpose. He takes her free hand in his own to worry at the width of her ring finger. Artemesia lays a fleeting kiss upon the flickering angle of his ear.

“Well,” she murmurs against the velveteen fur there, “we have the world at our disposal. Once any business here in Mor Dhona is concluded, where shall we adventure to next?”

“When was it you last visited your family? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Her mouth purses adorably as she tries to recall. “It has been more than a few months, I think. Why?”

“The tea your father makes; I tried for decades to recreate it on the First and had no luck. Would it be too presumptive to ask for the blend?”

“Oh, he would never give it to you,” she says good-naturedly. “That is a secret he will not even tell _ me. _Though he might be willing to brew it for you himself.”

He cannot tell if she is able to make out his secret intentions in suggesting they visit her family compound. G’raha cranes his neck to better read her face, but she is nigh unreadable in that enigmatic way she has about her. It fascinates him. It always has.

“I would like that. Very much.”

He kisses her. She sweetly holds his face. It is one of a thousand kisses, one of the countless he will no doubt offer to her in his lifetime, extraordinary as it has been. The tip of his own tail curls around her ankle while she grins against his lips.

_ Yes, _ he thinks, as his eyes finally close, joy blooming bright and warm in his chest, _ they have all the time in the world. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Please let me know what you guys thought of the patch and if you liked this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/despommess).


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